A Feverish Notion
by A. L. Nowicki
Summary: Suffering a chill from going out in the rain, Norman wonders what he's going to say if anyone shows up to the Bates Motel looking for Marion. Oneshot.


**Disclaimer**: I don't own Psycho or any of these characters.

**Author's Note**: I don't know, this was just some sort of brainstorm I had the other day. Norman Bates is obviously shy and keeps to himself, so what's running through his head after the death of his very attractive motel guest Mary Samuels (a.k.a. Marion Crane)? He has to come up with something to tell the authorities if and when they come by. What's he going to do?

* * *

Norman Bates pulled his robe tighter over himself and yanked his quilts up over his head. But it was no use; the chill was overwhelming his thin body.

"_Norman_!"

His mother was calling from across the hall. "Norman, are you going to go open up the motel, or are you just going to _lie there_?" Mother loved to taunt him when she thought he was being lazy.

"I-I'm sick, M-Mother," Norman shivered, poking his head out from underneath his quilts to yell back across the hall. "Fever and chill. I'm c-coming down with s-something." He had dressed in his warmest pair of pajamas, tied on his winter robe, and had snuggled in bed. His muscles were aching, his head was pounding, and he felt a cold coming on.

"That's your own fault, boy. How many times have I told you? You're always to use a raincoat or umbrella when you go out in the rain!"

"Please, M-Mother. I'm s-sick enough." Norman buried his head under his quilts again. Why did his mother have to shame him when he constantly cleaned up the messes she made? Sure, he had gone down in the rain to greet the girl when she had needed a room, and sure, he could have put on a raincoat, but he hadn't wanted to keep a motel guest waiting.

And then he had cleaned up the mess after Mother had—had done her awful deed. Norman shivered again, and not just from the chill. He had cleaned up all of the blood, and gotten rid of the body and the car. Mother had thanked him afterward, and called him a wonderful son.

But Cabin One was never going to be the same again.

Norman grabbed the stuffed rabbit he'd had since childhood and squeezed it. He'd always had a thin build, and colds went right through him. He missed the toasted cheese sandwiches Mother used to make him when he was sick as a child. He missed the hot tea, and the extra blankets Mother used to pile on him.

"Mother, may I have a toasted cheese sandwich?" Norman called weakly across the hall.

"Norman, you know I can't go downstairs anymore without your help," his mother called back. Norman was pleased to discover there was at least a little compassion in her voice. "You're going to have to wait until you're feeling a little better to go downstairs and make one yourself."

"Yes, Mother," Norman moaned. He was starting to grow hotter, and his chill was transforming into a raging fever. He gently reached over to the nightstand for the thermometer, and slipped it under his tongue. He wanted a cold compress for his forehead, but didn't have the energy to get out of bed. It would have to wait.

Norman lay back in bed and tried to relax. What _about_ that Mary Samuels girl? She claimed she was running away from something—"searching for her own private island," as she had put it—but someday, someone would come looking for her. What would Norman do? He _had_ to protect Mother. No one was to know about her—um—_tendencies_.

Thinking about the girl made Norman sicker than he already was. Mary, or Marion, or whatever her name was, had been attractive, and Norman had had feelings for her. His shyness had prevented him from doing anything other than bringing her dinner, but if it weren't for his timidity—and Mother's influence, obviously—he would have gotten closer to her. He would have asked her to sleep at the house, where it was more comfortable.

He would have asked her to stay an extra day. Maybe the private island she was searching for was right on Norman's property.

Norman took the thermometer out of his mouth, read the temperature, and sighed. One hundred and one point seven; thank goodness it wasn't any worse. He didn't want to call a doctor to the house; he didn't want to know what Mother would do. Mother was so ill she was capable of anything.

Norman sneezed twice, then reached for a tissue to wipe his nose. It was so painful to think about the girl. Why couldn't he just forget about her, forgetting she ever existed?

Wiping his nose miserably, he decided that forgetting her was probably the best thing to do. _Yeah_, he thought to himself, coughing into the tissue and then tossing it back onto the nightstand. _I'll forget about the entire thing. There's nothing else I can do, really_.

_When I'm better, I'll just go back to work at the motel and forget that any of this ever happened_. _She never came. It never happened_.

_I got rid of all traces of her. It should be easy to convince anyone…_

_…if anyone ever comes_, he admitted, drifting into a fever-induced sleep.

* * *

It took Norman a week to get back to work. The cold and fever had overwhelmed his thin body, forcing him to bed for several days. He hadn't eaten much except crackers—he was too weak to cook himself a toasted cheese sandwich—but he had definitely caught up on sleep.

Mother had been kind, at least. When he had had the strength, Norman walked across the hall and lie in his mother's bed, right next to her, in his sweaty pajamas. Just like when he was a boy.

"Norman, you're still ill?" she had asked him, time after time.

"Yes, Mother."

"Well, you'll feel better soon, my son. Just keep drinking water and tea."

"Yes, Mother."

Norman dressed himself in trousers and a crisp white shirt, then layered a black sweater over his shirt at Mother's request. He grabbed his trusty umbrella—if there should be a rainstorm—then headed down to the motel with a bag of candy corn. Mother had always given him candy corn when he was little, to calm his nerves before a big test at school. Today, he still ate it when he felt nervous.

_What if someone comes to ask about the girl, and I start to stutter_? He asked himself as he headed down to the motel. _I stutter when I'm nervous or upset. Will they believe me if I say she never showed up?_

To calm himself down, Norman set a porch chair in front of the office and read while he munched on his candy corn. Today was Linen Day, and he had missed last week's Linen Day. _The cabins must smell dank and creepy_, he thought to himself before shuddering.

Off in the distance, a car was driving down the old highway. Norman glanced off at the horizon; it was nearly nightfall. A guest? Perhaps.

The car turned into the Bates Motel and parked right in front of Norman. Looking up, Norman saw a rather official-looking man step out. Maybe he needed directions to the freeway…

…but then again, maybe not.

Norman took a deep breath, popped another piece of candy corn into his mouth, and tried to smile.

It was all in a day's work at the Bates Motel.


End file.
